


clear the area

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Roommates, Spoilers, There's A Tag For That, supportive blond sandwich cookies takamaki and sakamoto and their sad kurusu filling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 04:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: Every year Akira starts sliding into his— they call it his “November mood” in public, anywhere there’s even the slightest chance of being overheard. He sleeps less. He eats less. His temper frays, little by little, and it sucks, because they know why, and their friends know why, and a select few others know why, but to anyone else? There’s no way they’d be able to explain it.How do you say “hey, be gentle with my boyfriend, the anniversary of when he was drugged, beaten, and forcefully interrogated by the police is coming up?”





	clear the area

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelicghoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicghoul/gifts).



> _You'll find your way back down_  
>  _And I'll keep the area clear_  
>  _(Please clear the area)_  
>  _When you find your way back down_  
>  _In one piece_  
>  _Then I'll just be waiting here_  
>  _-clear the area,_ imogen heap

It’s still dark when he wakes up; Ryuji is groggy and disoriented for a long, long moment until he finally can focus on the bedside clock.

3:46 am.

To his right, there’s a warm jumble of blankets and Ann, dead to the world; to his left, the sheets are cold, and there’s a strip of light coming from beneath the closed bathroom door.

This is the third time in two weeks, and Ryuji knows the drill by now like the back of his own hand. Ann shifts as he rolls out of bed, but a hand on her shoulder and a kiss on her forehead quiets her. He grabs a glass of ice water from the kitchen in the dark and eases the bathroom door open just enough so he can slip through, and— yep, there he is, sitting on the bathmat with his head between his knees taking deep, measured breaths just this side of too fast to be normal.

Ryuji sighs, just a bit, and folds down beside Akira to draw him into his arms.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“You look tired,” Ann tells him sternly over lunch, pointing at Akira with a forkful of fancy crepe, and frowns even harder when he gives her a sheepish grin and nothing else in response.

She hates not being around to keep her boys in line all the time. They’ve all agreed she’s the one who has the most to lose if a scandal comes out about her— no one in Ryuji’s line of work would care, and it’s almost expected for a politician at this point, but the modelling industry is cutthroat, and if Ann loses her spot it would take a miracle to regain it.

Long visits and lunches and sleepovers are the price she pays for the job she loves, and while it’s hard, it’s worth it. 

Until things like this happen.

Every year Akira starts sliding into his— they call it his “November mood” in public, anywhere there’s even the slightest chance of being overheard. He sleeps less. He eats less. His temper frays, little by little, and it  _ sucks, _ because they know why, and their friends know why, and a select few others know why, but to anyone else? There’s no way they’d be able to explain it.

How do you say “hey, be gentle with my boyfriend, the anniversary of when he was drugged, beaten, and forcefully interrogated by the police is coming up?”

She knows it’s coming. Ryuji knows its symptoms. Hell, even Akira knows when it’s gonna hit, but stubbornly refuses to acknowledge it. He shuts them out and shatters himself to pieces, and only lets them back in when he’s got the mess cleaned up.

She  _ hates _ it. But there’s nothing she can do if he won’t let her.

“I want to see you eat that entire filet,” she says in lieu of all the other things she wants to say, and stares Akira down until he takes a bite.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ryuji wakes with a jolt.

Beside him Ann makes a soft noise of discontent; beside him the sheets are bare, but warm. The bathroom light is off. The kitchen light is on. A moment later, Ryuji hears the front door open and close.

He gropes for his phone in the dark and almost blinds himself when he unlocks it.

 

**> >in: “we need to put a bell on him or smth”-takamaki ann 20XX, 2:55 am**

**> >from: ryuji** **  
**_ work or nah _ __  
__  
**> >from: akira** **  
**_ needed fresh air _ __  
__  
**> >from: ryuji** **  
**_ u know how long ur gonna be? _ __  
__  
**> >from: akira** **  
**_ don’t wait up _ __  
__  
**> >from: ryuji** **  
**_ you know the drill _ __  
_ text me in an hr _ __  
_ or ill come looking for u _ __  
__  
**> >from: akira** **  
**_ you know you dont need to do that _ __  
__  
**> >from: ryuj** **  
**_ yah _ __  
_ but i want to _ __  
_ makes me feel better _ __  
_ i worry _ __  
__  
**> >from: akira** **  
**_ half an hour _ __  
_ go back to sleep _ __  
__  
**> >from: ryuji** **  
**_ not a chance in hell man _ __  
_ be safe ok _ __  
__  
**> >from: akira** **  
**_ not going out picking street fights you know _ __  
****__  
**> >from: ryuji** **  
**_ lol _ __  
_ ud just ambush em nyway _ __  
__  
When that doesn’t get a response, he wiggles out of bed (ignoring Ann’s sleep-grumbles) and staggers into the kitchen to start the kettle. If he’s feeling antsy enough that the bathroom won’t cut it, the least Ryuji can do is have something warm and comforting waiting for him when he comes back home.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ann makes an effort to go to them more these days; she takes more gigs in the city and makes it home in time for supper, only to come home to Ryuji standing over the stove frowning at a bunch of pots and Akira either not home or drowsing on the couch with the TV turned on for white noise.

The tension in the air is palpably lower when Akira’s not home; she and Ryuji order takeout half the time and sprawl on the couch to either watch Netflix or just talk about their day. The other half involves him rubbing the tension out of her shoulders and the strain out of her calves and ends up with them in the bathroom to clean up.

It’s on a night like this, scrunched up in their tiny tub with Ryuji running a washcloth down her back, that she brings it up. “You know,” she says, her voice almost too soft, hidden among the soft splashes she makes as she shifts, “he’s backsliding again.”

The washcloth stills; there’s a moment of silence, and then Ryuji sighs and buries his face in her hair. “I know,” he says, half a groan and half a plaintive noise. “He’s gettin’ up in the night again. Won’t talk to me, won’t talk to you, won’t talk to Futaba, won’t talk to Boss. We should  _ know _ how to deal with it by now!”

“He should know that we’re here to help by now,” Ann says in agreement. It comes out more petulant than she really wants it to, and Ryuji’s arms snake around her to squeeze her tight to him. “He knows we love him, right?”

“Wouldn’t put up with his dumb shit if we didn’t, right?” 

It’s a good point, and it leaves Ann distracted enough for Ryuji to goose her. They have to wipe the bathroom down after they get out of the tub, but they’re presentable (if damp) when Akira gets home.

He barely looks at them. He sets his suitcase down and heads into the bathroom without a word.

Then he pokes his head back out. “Is there a leak under the sink?”

“Shit,” Ryuji and Ann say in unison.

 

~*~*~*~

  
  


Ryuji wakes up to a slow-growing sense of unease.

There’s nothing outwardly wrong— there’s warmth on his left and warmth on his right when he searches, and for a moment he thinks it’s a fluke, that his instincts are pinging for something that isn’t there.

But then Akira whimpers.

It’s a soft noise, all the more plaintive for how quiet it is, and it’s unusual enough that it sends an icy jolt through him. Akira’s  _ always _ silent when he sleeps. He’s always silent when he sits on the bathmat with his head in his arms, when he slips out of the bedroom like a thief in the night to go do whatever he does in the streets at hell o’clock.

When Ryuji lays a gentle hand on his cheek, he’s cold and clammy with sweat.

He’s also reeling back with a shout almost immediately after, bolting upright  and all but shoving Ryuji away from him. “Hey!” Ryuji says, baffled and not a little hurt, but Akira doesn’t respond. “Sorry I— babe?”

It’s not that he doesn’t respond. It’s that he  _ can’t  _ respond. In the faint light from the window Ryuji sees him grab the front of his shirt, white-knuckled, shoulders shaking, expression drawn and pained. He’s breathing fast and shallow enough that it sounds like he’s panting through his clenched teeth. 

Ann rolls over beside them, but Ryuji doesn’t spare her a glance, already trying to reach back out. “Akira,” he says, trying for calm and gentle and landing somewhere short of the mark. “Hey. You with me?” No response. He shuffles over in the bed a little more and rests his hand on Akira’s clenched fist.

Akira’s head whips towards him. There’s no recognition in his wild eyes, only panic, the fear of a trapped animal. Not two seconds later he’s out of the bed and into the bathroom, and the door shuts hard enough behind him that Ann sits up fully too. 

No one gets any more sleep that night. The door stays shut (and locked; Ryuji tries the handle once, just in case) until just after dawn, when Akira slips out with a towel over his head and another slung around his waist to grab his suit. Neither Ann nor Ryuji try to stop him, not then and not half an hour later when he comes out fully dressed and steely eyed, the bags under his eyes deep and dark.

He doesn’t say goodbye. He doesn’t take the lunch Ryuji packed for him. It’s hard not to feel hurt. It’s hard not to feel like he’s going to fall apart just as much as Akira. Worry clogs his throat and lays like a lead weight in his stomach all morning.

And then he gets the call.

He’s making his excuses and bolting out the door not ten minutes later.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ann’s putting the finishing touches on her makeup when she hears the front door open and close. “You forget something, ‘yuji?” she calls out, smiling.

No one answers her. She frowns as she puts the cap on her lipstick and pads out into the bedroom, poking her head through the doorway. No one in the kitchen that she can see, no one in the living room— wait. No. There’s a creak from the couch. “Ryuji?”

“No,” Akira’s voice says.

He sounds  _ wrecked. _

Ann skids around the couch faster than she really should on the wood floors, heart in her throat. He’s still in his suit, lying with his face crushed into the corner and his briefcase leaning unsteadily against the arm of the couch. “What— you’re here,” she says, a little dumbstruck. “You just left, you’ve only been gone a few hours.”

“Yoshida-san sent me home.”  _ God _ , he sounds like he’s screamed himself hoarse. She puts a hand on his shoulder and tugs a little, wanting him to roll over so she can see him. He resists, but she keeps it up until he folds.

His face is pale and blotchy. His eyes are red and anguished. “Oh, honey,” Ann says without even thinking, reaching down to cradle his face. “ _ Babe. _ What happened?”

“What do you  _ think _ ,” he says. His words would be bitter if they had any energy to them. They just sound sad instead. “I had a— I— _ fuck. _ “

Right. Yoshida is one of the privileged few that know; Ann fervently thanks the man inside her head for his common sense. Of course, any decent boss would send someone home if they had a panic attack, but Yoshida knows the context and wouldn’t be afraid to be forceful. “Hey, hey,” she soothes, brushing his hair up and off his forehead, wiping the moisture at the corner of his eye away with the side of her thumb. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Is it,” he says hollowly, and closes his eyes when she can’t immediately respond. But he doesn’t push her away when she crawls onto the couch beside him, doesn’t flinch back when she pulls him into her arms, and if his shoulders shake when she kisses his forehead then that’s between the two of them.

She calls Ryuji an hour or two later, once she’s gotten a cried-out Akira into the shower and tucked into bed. He’s home barely an hour after that.

“We can’t keep lettin’ this happen!” Ryuji tells her fiercely, loud enough that she slaps a hand over his mouth and shoots a panicked look at the bedroom door. Nothing stirs inside, and when Ryuji takes her wrist she lets him move her. “We  _ can’t _ . I ain’t gonna let him tear himself apart like this anymore! I can’t  _ do  _ it!!”

“I know, I know, but keep your voice down!” Ann hisses. “I hate it as much as you do! I don’t want to watch this anymore either!”

“I wanna pin him down and effin’  _ make _ him listen to us, make him let us  _ help! _ We can help! He  _ knows _ we can help! Why’s he gotta be such a— a stoic asshole?!” He sounds like he’s near tears, and Ann’s not that far off either. If he starts crying, she’ll start crying, and that won’t help anything or anyone.

They have time, now. Ann has flexibility in her job; she can stay home while Ryuji’s gone, make sure he’s not alone, make sure he always has someone on hand. They have a week to drill it into Akira’s stupid brain that they’re here for him, and she tells Ryuji this in a low hushed voice while he clings to her. They’re going to make it work.

Even if they  _ do  _ have to pin him down and force it into him. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

It’s slow going.

He won’t let either of them touch him after he wakes up the first day, spends the rest of the afternoon sitting in the single-person armchair by the window with a slowly cooling mug of coffee. He spends the night on the couch, and Ryuji sleeps fitfully, waking several times to a light under the door and the sound of footsteps pacing slow, steady laps across the living room floor. He won’t eat dinner, doesn’t eat breakfast the next day, and it’s not until Ann sets a plate of something nebulously foodlike in front of him and glares that he so much as makes a motion towards it.

(When he bites down, it crunches; they stare at each other for a few moments, Akira blank-faced, Ann mortified. She orders takeout. He eats half his chicken and most of the rice and Ann chalks it up as a win.)

The third day would be much like the first two but for the fact that Ryuji takes the day off and spends it cooking. Akira shows up in the doorway looking haggard and worn, his blanket like a cloak over his head and around his shoulders, inching closer as Ryuji churns out tamagoyaki and pancakes as fluffy as pillows, pan-fried salmon and octopus sausage bentos for the rest of the week, three types of cookies and even some homemade mochi. By the end of it the counter is covered with bowls, Ryuji is covered with flour, and Akira’s been set up on a stool to blissfully clean out the last traces of cookie dough from a bowl.

He silently helps Ann with the dishes, and follows them to the couch when the kitchen is brought back from the brink of a disaster zone, but he still won’t talk to them.

Day four gets Ann and Ryuji into planning mode.

They talk in hushed, worried voices in the living room, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, anywhere they can be sure Akira won’t hear him. They consult the internet, text Makoto, and scrape together the barest hints of something workable.

Then they scrap it all when they hear Akira’s low, muffled sobbing through the bedroom door. They can’t let it go on any longer.

On the fifth day, Ann drops her hand into Akira’s hair and pulls up a hank of it with a sniff of disgust. “Greasy boy.” It’s not that bad, honestly, but it does need a wash, and the way Akira’s shoulders hunch shows that he knows it. “I was about to hop in myself; come with me and I’ll wash your back for you.”

It’s not a question. It’s on the verge of not being a request, either. Maybe Akira’s weak to the command in his voice, or maybe he’s just tired of thinking for himself for a while. Either way he rises and lets the blanket slough off his shoulders as he follows her into the bathroom.

Ann hasn’t felt any shame about stripping down in front of either of her boys in years. She shucks off her clothes and pops her back and shoulders before she winds her pigtails up into two sloppy buns— she’ll take them down after she gets her body washed and sluiced clean— and points to the stool on the floor.

She’s not gonna let him do a single thing today. Ryuji, already in the bath, watches them with open interest, his head resting on his folded arms while he oogles them blatantly.

Akira’s muscles are tense as all hell. “What have you been doing,” Ann mutters under her breath as she skates the washcloth across the plane of his back, the long length of his arm, the wide flat expanse of his chest, “you’re all stiff.”

“Wonder why,” Akira says in monotone, the closest he’s gotten to a joke all week. He hisses when Ann pinches the soft skin at his waist. “Don’t be mean to me, I’m on leave.”

“I’ll be as mean as I want,” Ann says and means it, even as she scoots around to get his calves and thighs, to knead her thumbs into the arch of his soles. It makes him grunt and flinch, but there’s an obvious look of relief on his face when she’s done. Stoic bastard. By the time she’s done with him today he’s going to be  _ begging _ for her to touch him.

Scrubbing herself takes much less time, even with both of her boys’ eyes on her. She wants to take her time, wants to put on a little show, but this day is all about Akira, catering to her wants and his needs, and while she’s sure a sexy bath dance would fall somewhere under the ‘wants’ list it’s not a good idea right now. There’s more important things to be done.

Still. She doesn’t complain when Akira reaches out and snags her around the waist, resting his head gingerly against her chest. She bends down to kiss his forehead with a surge of affection. “Ready to get your hair?”

“Hey, let me,” Ryuji says, clambering out of the bath like a swamp monster. “Your turn to relax in the tub.” He swats her on the ass as he passes by to get the shampoo; it startles a squeak out of her, one that makes Akira grin against her skin.

His hand lingers at her back, at her side, more than he’s touched her all week. She hates how touch deprived it makes her feel, that she wants to stay here and keep him in her arms, squeeze him tight to her and never let him go. It doesn’t help that his breath is warm and a little damp against her skin in a very familiar way.

Ryuji returns with the shampoo and tugs her in for a kiss, just a brief one, his hand overlapping Akira’s on her waist. Then she takes her place in the tub and watches Ryuji manipulate Akira like putty— a hand between his shoulder blades pushing him forward, a touch at the back of his neck tilting his head down so Ryuji can pour warm water from crown to nape— and slip his soapy fingers into Akira’s hair. From this angle she has a great seat to the way Akira’s expression changes from dull and bored to soft, receptive.

Even more so when Ryuji’s fingers scrub firmly behind his ear and down his neck. His brows twitch; the tension in his mouth melts away, goes slack as Ryuji smooths around his hairline and works the tangles out of his hair in short, brusque motions. He looks so much like a cat getting the petting of its life that she can’t help but giggle.

Akira looks over at the noise. The tension around his eyes has slackened; he gives her the smallest, tiniest grin before Ryuji bends him over to rinse him clean.

The bath is very,  _ very _ small for three full-grown adults to fit into, but they make do. (Not without a fair bit of water splashing onto the floor, and not without a fair share of elbows and knees poking into places where they don’t belong.) Akira ends up tucked between the two of them, Ann straddling his lap and Ryuji cradling him from behind. It’s a good position for Ann— she gets to have her assets up front on full display as part two of “get Akira to stop being such an idiot baby” starts taking shape.

He’s looking. He’d be a fool not to. He’s even touching,if only around her waist, and one leg creeps down to her thigh to brace her when she re-balances herself around the other extended legs. “Does the water feel good?” she asks, half out of genuine concern and half because she wants to see if he’ll follow the bounce of her breasts with his eyes.

(He does. This is an excellent sign.) “Yes.”

“Good. You feeling any more relaxed?”

“A little.”

“Good,” Ryuji says from behind him, planting a kiss on the back of his neck. “That’s the plan.”

They stay in the bath for longer than they should, but it’s a delight to watch some of the stress leach out of Akira’s expression, to watch his shoulders go lax and his head droop forward more and more, like he’s about to fall asleep between them. It’s likely enough that Ann stays tucked up in front of him; if he falls any further forward he’ll end up pillowed on her shoulder and not inhaling bath water.

With his eyes drifting shut it’s easy to communicate with Ryuji via mouthed phrases and exaggerated expressions and hand gestures over Akira’s shoulder. It’s not easy to  _ understand _ said hand gestures, but it’s easy to make them, and Ann accidentally shatters the serenity of the bath when Ryuji glares at her hard enough to scrunch his face all up and makes several frantic jerk-off motions. She giggles hard enough to startle Akira awake; the baffled expression on his face makes her want to squeeze him.

So she does, grabs him and tugs him forward, plants kisses all over his face. “What’s this about?” he asks muzzily, but he wraps his arms around her, and Ryuji wraps his around them both, crushing them all together.

“I just—” Ann says, pausing to kiss him right on the tip of his nose. “I love you, you know?”

“Oh.” It’s a small noise, almost involuntary, and the way Akira immediately looks down and away betrays how much he hadn’t meant to let it slip out. “Um….”

His hesitation is heart-wrenching for the completely opposite reason. “Yes, dummy, even with this. You can’t scare me off after this long. I’m here for you, and I want to support you.”

He exhales, and presses his face further into her neck.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Eventually Ryuji drags them both up and out, once his fingers start pruning and the bathwater runs lukewarm. They’ve gotten what they wanted, at least; Akira’s about as limp as a well-cooked noodle, and staggers a bit until Ann gets her shoulder under his arms. He doesn’t protest when they lead him into the bedroom, with its clean sheets and its drawn shades casting a comforting gloom. He doesn’t protest when Ann arranges him to her liking, close to the edge and on his stomach.

He  _ does _ protest when she steals his towel, but only a little, and by then Ryuji’s kneeling beside him with the massage oil they’ve had warming in its own little water bath, hands already coated and digging into the knots in his shoulders. “Holy shit, dude, I wish you’d said somethin’,” he mutters, underlaid by sharp noises of discomfort from Akira as his fingers press and smooth away the knots all the way down his back. “You know I’d’ve gotten you done ages ago. Y’don’t have to sit around and be all uncomfortable in your fancy-ass suit.”

“I don’t—  _ hngn, _ ” he says, very coherently, as Ann sits her towel-covered ass right next to his head and starts running her nails through his hair. Panther’s got claws, and Akira’s always been weak to them; he groans as she strokes down beside his ears and back up the bare skin of his neck, and again even louder when Ryuji digs his thumbs into either side of his spine and  _ pushes. _

Between the two of them, they reduce him to a loose and quivering mess, one that doesn’t even protest when they flip him over, barely helping to move his dead weight. He groans as Ryuji digs his fingers into the arch of his foot, as Ann rakes her nails down his chest, shudders as she scrapes them across his nipples, as Ryuji works his way up his calves, up his thighs, spreads his legs apart with slick fingers and presses up.

It’s always a treat to get Akira sandwiched between the two of them. He never likes taking the passive role for long, prefers to get Ryuji or Ann in the middle, lavish them with attention. Even when they try to gang up on him he’s usually insistent on being part of the action, pulling them over him, biting and licking and touching and nuzzling.

This, him limply submitting to their touch, letting them do whatever they want to make him feel good… It makes Ryuji feel powerful, and makes him want to cry. It’s been so long since they’ve gotten him to sit down and just take it.

He slides his fingers between the crux of Akira’s legs just as Ann bends over and kisses him, swallowing the yelp he makes, pinning his shoulders to the bed as Ryuji touches him all slick and slippery, presses inside and crooks his finger just right. They’re gorgeous to watch together, even if the angle is poor; Akira’s hands coming up to cradle her head, Ann’s painted fingernails flicking back and forth across his nipples, pinching as Ryuji adds a second finger. The noise Akira makes into her mouth is breathless, a little huffy. Ryuji can’t help but laugh.

He’s so easy to play like a string, so eager, arching into their hands, pleading for their touch without words; he keens high and shivery when Ryuji presses three fingers in, when Ann reaches a lazy hand down and Ryuji slaps the bottle of massage oil into her hand like a baton pass. Akira jerks upward when she wraps her hand around him, and the noise he makes is like music.

The noise he makes then, and then a moment later when he drags Akira’s hips down to the edge of the bed, when Ann trails her slick hand up his abs and comes to join him, sinks down as Ryuji presses in, and between the two of them they pull him to pieces.

After, he sleeps like the dead, and Ryuji and Ann do too, bracketing him like closed parentheses, their arms and legs tangled until they can barely tell where one person ends and the next starts.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Sex doesn’t cure everything, of course. Akira wakes up haggard and worn, but he lets Ann drape herself over him, lets Ryuji feed him bits and pieces of homemade orange chicken in bed, lets them kiss him and cuddle him until he smiles despite himself. He goes on a walk with them, lets Ann swing their entwined fingers back and forth while Ryuji runs ahead and then back, full of eager, pent up energy like an overexcited puppy.

He falls asleep in their bed that night, and wakes up trembling, but he lets Ryuji roll him into the middle of the bed until he butts up against Ann’s sleepy form, lets them hold him through his shakes.

And when Ryuji wakes up the next morning to cold bedsheets beside him, he hears the shower running, and the faintest hint of whistling. He waits, barely awake, until Akira slips out, already dressed and fixing his tie. The shadows under his eyes are almost gone; his hair is slicked back to perfection, but his collar’s folded all wrong. He comes over when Ryuji beckons, leans down and lets him fix it, and gives him a thank-you kiss that leaves Ryuji a lot more awake.

“Have a good day, babe,” he says in a groggy rasp.

“I’ll try,” Akira says, and smiles.

It’s not perfect, but it’s better. Ryuji’s content with that for now.

**Author's Note:**

> hi kitty!!!! i really truly hope this is to your liking, and i'm so sorry it's late! pegoryu week hit me in the nads and i stalled hardcore trying to wedge everything you requested in here, ahaha. gotta show my ot3 shippers some solidarity!!!
> 
> happy secret santa in july!!!


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